The Weight of Generosity

I never imagined that one day, I would become the safety net for everyone I love. As a little girl growing up in poverty, I dreamed of escaping scarcity—not becoming the person everyone leaned on once I did.

But here I am.

I pay the bills. I buy the groceries. I keep the lights on—not just in my home, but in my parents’ home too. And when my younger brother gets into financial trouble or my husband’s freelance work hits a dry spell, I step in. Not because I have to, but because I can. Because I know what it’s like to go without. And because I watched my own father silently carry the same load until it broke him.

The Rise of a Reluctant Matriarch

I didn’t grow up thinking I would be the provider. In fact, I was taught the opposite. Girls were supposed to be taken care of, not the ones doing the caretaking. But life doesn’t always follow cultural scripts. And sometimes, the person who survives hardship becomes the one who rescues everyone else from it.

My family wasn’t just poor—we were resourceful. My parents did their best with what they had, which often wasn’t much. I wore hand-me-downs, learned how to stretch rice and lentils, and found creative ways to avoid field trips that required money. But the real cost wasn’t material. It was watching the adults in my life, especially my father, drown in responsibility with no life raft.

When I started making good money, something in me shifted. I felt proud, of course. But also obligated. My success didn’t feel like mine alone—it felt like a joint account with every person who ever sacrificed for me.

The Quiet Tax of Being the Strong One

There’s a loneliness that comes with being “the strong one.”

You celebrate your raise quietly, because someone you love is behind on rent. You plan vacations in your head, only to send that money home when a parent gets sick. You scroll past luxury items, not because you can’t afford them, but because someone else can’t afford necessities.

And you don’t complain—because complaining feels ungrateful.

But being grateful and being overwhelmed are not mutually exclusive. I’ve learned that the hard way.

Sometimes, I cry in the car after transferring money for someone’s “emergency.” Not because I don’t want to help, but because I don’t feel like I’m allowed to stop. I shoulder their burdens, but who holds mine?

My Father’s Reflection in My Mirror

Reading Nadia’s piece about her father made me cry. Not just because of what happened to him, but because I saw myself in the shadow of his story.

Like him, I give. And give. And give.

He gave so much it cost him his health. That terrifies me. I’m a mother, a wife, a daughter. My son looks at me the way I looked at my dad—like I’m unbreakable. But I’m not. None of us are. Not even the strong ones.

I don’t want to leave this world before I get to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I don’t want my generosity to be my undoing. I want to live. I want to thrive. I want to teach my son that yes, we help our family—but not at the cost of ourselves.

Breaking the Cycle Without Breaking Myself

So now I’m learning to say something that sounds almost foreign: “No.”

Not always. But sometimes.

Saying no doesn’t mean I don’t love my family. It means I love myself enough to preserve my well-being. It means I want to be around for the long haul. It means I believe that survival shouldn’t always come with sacrifice.

Boundaries are a form of self-respect. And self-respect is just as important as kindness.

Choosing Empowerment Over Exhaustion

To every woman like me—who grew up poor, made it out, and now feels like she’s carrying everyone on her back—I see you. I feel you. And I want you to know this:

You are not selfish for wanting rest.

You are not greedy for keeping some of your success for yourself.

You are not a failure if you can’t fix everyone’s life.

Being the provider doesn’t mean you have to be the martyr.

We are rewriting what it means to be strong. Strength is not just endurance—it’s discernment. It’s choosing when to give and when to preserve. It’s learning to love others while still saving some love for ourselves.

I will always be grateful for where I came from. And I’ll always take pride in how far I’ve come. But I no longer want to wear burnout as a badge of honor. I want to live a life of balance, of joy, of presence.

Not just for my family.

But for me, too.